Tall and thickly rooted,
an orchard amidst a garden.
The hardened immigrant toils
muddied soil his base,
and his face ruddy and worn.
He had been removed
from the home he knew trans-
planted between two trees
shading his vegetable patch.
An apple tree reaching,
arms raised in prayer for a fruit-
ful yield. Across the way
plums, purple and regal.
Leather hands holding a hoe,
a “Hokka” he says, chopping
and tilling clods of sod.
Plans for tomatoes, potatoes,
beets and cucumbers
and a number of other plants.
Bandanna flailing raised to brow
mopping the flop-sweat
under the noon day sun, baking.
A curse in his mother tongue,
chopping against bark to free
the mud held tightly. Releasing
his place of birth for home!
**
From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 23, 2016:
Borrowed Prompt
Borrowing a prompt from poet and teacher, Jeff Hardin.
I’ll give you the beginning. Follow the link to his website. (And look around while you’re visiting)
Our minds are filled with fleeting glimpses of moments we have inhabited in our lives, moments that have remained, for whatever reason, a part of who we are. W. S. Merwin’s poem “Alba” captures what appears to be a memory of coming “to a terrace wall” and being in that moment, eventually hearing a man praising a mule. The poem simply brings to life this mysterious (and perhaps mystical) experience. Read the poem below:AlbaClimbing in the mist I came to a terrace wall
and saw above it a small field of broad beans in flower
their white fragrance was flowing through the first light
of morning there a little way up the mountain
Read the rest Here
Then come back and let us see where it has taken you.
No comments:
Post a Comment